


Silver on his tongue, Iron in his fist

by adnarel



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF, Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adnarel/pseuds/adnarel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Kat breaks up with Tom, Kenneth sends Chris to fetch him from the pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where

He found the bar along a narrow side-street that smelled of piss and sex, a tangerine and metal scent that hung heavy in the air only to settle on his jacket and on the skin of his wrists. Chris held his breath as he passed a couple necking in a shadowy doorway. It was a Friday evening in London. He had learned to expect this kind of thing. He was used to it. But the dislike that coiled in his chest wasn’t from the locals—most of them pleasantly buzzed and finally confident, stripped of the exasperating quiet and impolitic politeness they wore like armor. No, it wasn’t them.

 

At a beep, Chris checked his phone. It was Kenneth, checking in: _Well?_

 

_Yes, found it. I’ll get him._

 

_Good._

_Shut it, Kenneth, I didn’t sign up for this._

_Text later with updates._

_Like Fuck I will._

_Hey. I got the girl._

_Shut it._

 

 _See you tomorrow, Thor. 5AM_.

 

He pushed the mobile deep into his pocket. Normally, Chris enjoyed places like this, where there were no bright lights; the neon sliced into the darkness without revealing anything or anyone. Chris shivered and turned his collar up. He stood outside the bar, hesitant to enter. A couple or two stared at him while he walked back and forth in front of the pub door, shivering in the cold. Shaking his head, Chris berated himself, “fuck me!” and walked through the door.

 

He had been in the pub before and he was familiar, already, with the low brown tables and the bar at the back but the disquiet that unsettled him rose to his chest the minute he lifted his eyes and found Tom hunched over a pint of beer, a long finger on the rim of his glass.

 

“There you are,” Chris said, pulling a seat opposite. Tom had chosen a table farthest from the bar and his sweating mug of beer had lost most of its head.

 

Tom smiled. Despite the anxiety and the exhaustion he wore on a daily basis from the shoot, his eyes were warm. “Glad you came.”

 

“Of course. You had something on your mind?” Chris took the mug, sniffed the beer, and grimaced.

 

“Kat,” Tom said warily. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “She broke it off this afternoon.”

 

“We know,” Chris shook his head slowly, frowning. For a second, Tom looked angry. Eyes hard, he lifted his chin and his nostrils flared as he took a breath.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Kat told Kenneth,” Chris said, by way of explanation, his voice even. _Fuck Kenneth_. _Couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut_. A vice tightened in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve said that.

 

“It was never serious,” Tom said. “It just sort of—“ he waved his hand, “happened. As things do.” Shaking his head, Tom chuckled. “God. I’m too old for this.” He took a giant gulp of his drink. “Christ, that’s bad.”

 

“You don’t even drink beer, Tom,” Chris said, smiling.

 

“Ehe, but I do.” Tom took another gulp, forcing it down. “At least, I know I did. I used to.”

 

Chris pulled the mug to him. “Tell you what. I’ll finish this.” He took a sip. It wasn’t bad, only not nearly cold enough. He wanted something salty, a plate of chips. “What about we go out for some coffee after I finish after. Clear your mind. This place doesn’t suit you.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Chris nodded.

 

“Kat said that, too.”

 

 _Oh_.

 

“Well, she was right.” Chris frowned.

 

“That she was. Right about a lot of things.”

 

“Come on, Tom. Talk to me.” Chris had friends work through break-ups before and between them and his two brothers, he was reasonably well-supplied with a cachet of wisdom. Tom already believably played his brother onscreen. There was nothing different. But something didn’t feel right and he couldn’t bring himself to play-act, couldn’t bring himself to shake, loosen, erode the deep hush of Tom’s disappointment.

 

“Tom, come on.”

 

With a  rakish grin—cold but not without some pleasure—Tom took the tankard and drank. He plunked the empty mug on the table with a satisfying thud.  

 

“All done. Do you want to--?” Chris made to get up but Tom shook his head slowly, eyes on his hands. He burped, apologized, and laughed at himself.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Give me a minute.” He held a fist up to his lips, eyes shut.

 

“Hey,” he continued. Tom wasn’t laconic. Sometimes, in fact, the man wouldn’t _shut up_. He was exuberant, boisterous, unnervingly cheerful. Here was new territory, at last. “You said it wasn’t serious.”  

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I’d like another beer, Chris.”

 

Chris’ eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. Tom caught a waitress as she passed by, a tray under her arm. “Two more,” he pointed at the mug. “Anything for you?” Eyes narrowed into slits as a challenge. Tom looked and acted like a snake rearing up to strike.  

 

“Two for me as well, thanks,” he said to the waitress. When she moved off, Chris removed his jacket. “You have something in mind, Tom?”

 

“Get me drunk,” Tom said, his voice flat. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back, beaming. There was no mirth in him but there was purpose. He shone almost silver in the dimness. The pub around them thrummed happily, the old wooden beams on the ceiling seemed miles away. Something was going to happen.    

 

“Oh, come on.”

 

“You sound almost disappointed.”

 

 _I am_.

 

“I always thought you were a stickler for sobriety.”

 

Tom laughed when their drinks arrived. “I remembered why I stopped drinking beer. Abysmal tolerance.” He downed half of his first pint.

 

 _Fuck Kenneth, fuck_. Chris looked at his watch and made a show of tucking his jacket behind him.

 

“I’m glad you’re here, you came.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Tom took another long pull. “Yes, yes. Kat said you would come.” He had a wicked grin and he jabbed a finger into his own chest. “Kat said you would come.” He smiled, triumphant, the grin firmly in place.


	2. How

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom reveals some uncomfortable, intimate details about his relationship with Kat Dennings and Chris is powerless to stop his arousal.

The bartender shot them another cursory glance. He was a large man (so far, all the bars in London were manned by large men) with impressive tattoos all the way up to his neck. The designs extended deliciously downward, blue and green with sweeping black lines. Chris followed what looked like an anchor—a set of curved lines connected by a large black horizontal one—disappear from the base of the bartender’s nape. He shivered. It must have been the seventh pint working in him. He was blonde and, from where Chris sat, his eyes could be any color but they were definitely staring at him. Chris shuddered. The man was wiping pint glasses clean with a brown dishrag. Big hands but delicate fingers. Each gleaming glass, he set down on the counter in a line. Chris followed the line of his arm up to his collar, across his chest, down his chest. 

“And I said, screw it, _I told her we weren’t fucking around_.” Tom brought the flat of his palm down, hard. The table shook but Chris was used to this by now. They were seven glasses in and Tom had made good on his promise. Abysmal tolerance. “Then she was gone, Chris. Laughing her head off.” Tom swayed in his seat, long arms limp. 

Chris tried to concentrate. He frowned, pushing a lock of hair out of his face. He hadn’t texted Kenneth. If he was honest with himself, he was a little nervous. What would Kenneth do if he found out that sweet, mild Tom was as unstable and uninhibited as—well—Loki? The last message was from Nat who had volunteered to stay with Kat and Ken. 

_What’s up?_

Tom is so far gone he cannot see me anymore. 

She hadn’t replied and—after five unanswered messages—even Kenneth had stopped trying. 

_Fucking Kenneth Branagh._

“And then what happened?” Chris goaded Tom, trying to wheedle the rest of the story out of him. Maybe if Tom actually said something, they would arrive somewhere more productive, less redundant. But all he seemed capable of at this moment as this incapacitating rage. And asking for more beer. 

“Come on, Tom. What happened” Chris had tried. He had been trying for the past hour but he was tired and worn out. So the panic and frustration seeped into his voice a little. It came out as a twinge when he said Tom’s name. 

Tom tried to focus on him. He swayed in his seat. “You think I’m drunk.” He sounded wounded instead of indignant but he put his arm down and shifted forward, body hovering over the table. “I’m just a really good, great actor, my friend.” 

“Of course you are.” Chris rolled his eyes and frowned. “You are only _acting_ drunk.” 

Tom sat back down, clapping and nodding. “Very good, Christopher.” He hiccuped, put two fingers against his lips, and glanced at Chris. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, enough of this, Tom.” Chris pushed the drinks aside. He glanced at the bartender and saw only the man’s broad back. Cursing, he forced himself to concentrate. It was getting harder to remember the words, his own and Tom’s. 

“Come on. Talk to me. Surely after all that, you can talk to me.” He gestured helplessly at the pint glasses on the table. “Thomas.”

Tom blinked slowly and swallowed. He licked his lips and looked at his hands on the table. When he looked up at Chris, his eyes remained clouded over and vacant although the stare held steady. 

“Nothing happened, that’s the problem.” 

“Excuse me?”

“We were just _fucking_.” 

“That’s a nice word, Tom.” 

“That was her word, dear.”

“Go on.”

“We were just _fucking around_ ,” Tom said and paused, savoring the words, his lips pulling up into a hesitant smile. He licked his lips as though they were bruised. “Random hook-ups all over the sets—nowhere too risqué, of course—but,” he waved his words away, making room for more, “bathrooms, our trailer, the top of that minivan. All such fun.” His eyes narrowed and he ran a finger trough his hair. Chris had always enjoyed watching what Tom did with his hands. They were the most expressive, joyful part of watching him speak. Even now. Especially now. Chris chanced a quick glance at the blonde bartender. He hadn’t looked at them again. 

“After intercourse, if we were hungry, we ate. Nowhere special, as a rule,” Tom seemed to be in physical pain when he admitted he had never asked Kat out for a fancy dinner. He could not look at Chris so he kept going. “Her favorite was a pub near here, actually,” he pointed out the window, east. “That way, there. Then we would head back together and then wink and joke about it.” 

Chris was nodding, fascinated. 

“Well, good. Good. Nothing new, yes?” Tom watched Chris nod. “And then she asked me if I was interested in a threesome.” 

“Were you?” Chris wanted to pound his chest, dislodge the breath that had fallen through the hole there. “What did you say?”

“Of course—of course I was.” Tom smiled a little, a wicked gleam appeared in his eye. He shook his head. “But we decided against it.” 

Tom was silent for a long time. 

“You’ve never done this before.” When Chris said it, he hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t clipped the words of the accusation knitted into them. There was pity in it, too. 

“No.” Tom had noticed. He sat straight in his chair, hugging his pint. “The threesome?” 

“No, Tom.” Chris said, dismissively. They would get to that sticky subject later. “Fucking around. You’ve never fucked around before.” This time it was neither a question nor an accusation. Chris was learning to become gentler because he knew, suddenly, what Tom needed. And he was up for it. 

Tom smiled. It was a _real_ Tom smile. It was so wide that it stretched up into his eyes. He dropped his shoulders and relaxed, transformed momentarily into the unassailable Tom for whom the world was neither dangerous nor painful. 

“I’m quite proud of that,” Tom said. 

“Congratulations. You learned to love and fuck from poetry.”

“Don’t use words you can’t understand, Chris.”

“Did she know she was your first fuck buddy?” 

“No.”

“You didn’t talk about it?” 

Tom inclined his head. “She did. I suppose I didn’t listen well.” Chin on his chest, he laughed. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize for making an idiot of yourself, Tom.” 

“Wise words.” 

“Good enough for poetry? Stand up.” Chris rubbed his neck and arms to get rid of the chill in his bones. Behind him, Tom brushed crumbs from his pants. Though he wobbled a little when he got to his feet, he reached for the chair and fixed his expression. He looked mildly bewildered but curious. He would pass for pleasantly buzzed, Chris decided. Tom was a good actor. 

“Now. We’re going to walk to the bar.” Chris clasped Tom’s shoulder and squeezed until Tom winced. He did not let go. “Then we are going to find you a new, well, friend.” 

“Chris, you don’t have to do this.” It came out almost like a plea but Chris knew Tom well enough to know better. It wasn’t a plea to stop, it was a plea to go on, regardless of how Tom felt about it. How still he stands, Chris thought, giving Tom a quick look. He’s almost trembling. 

“You didn’t love her, _did_ you?”

Tom did not hesitate. A good sign. “No.” 

“We’ll find you someone not to love. We’re in a pub for chrissake!”

Tom grinned and followed Chris across the pub to the bar.


End file.
